HEART OF GLASS¹ ━━ the walking dead ✓

[ 036 ] remembrance

Lori was dead because of him. Carol, T-Dog. Rick hadn't been seen since his wife's death, and they had a newborn baby on their hands, with no formula to quench its hunger.

A domino effect. One bad thing led to another and another and another.

So much loss.

Marley rubbed her burning eyes. She peered over the edge of her bed, searching for any signs of Sage's small frame protruding from beneath her moth-eaten blanket. But she wasn't there, as Marley expected, considering it was midday. If there was anything in the world her sister was doing, it would be trying to alleviate Carl's depression through distraction, somewhere on the prison grounds.

Because that's what Sage Whitman did best ─ helping people.

Marley was lucky to call Sage her sister.

She turned onto her side and slowly clambered out of bed, her limbs stiff and sore. The knife on her bedside table glinted in the sun's glare, still caked in Lori's blood, though it was dry now and not quite as prominent. It was ugly and didn't bring her any semblance of relief, like it usually did. She could barely look at it. And physically, Marley couldn't bring herself to touch it. But she needed to.

There was something she wanted to do today.

Something important. Trivial.

She placed her hand on the metal drawers beside the knife, testing the waters first. Her stomach clenched. Seeing the blood up so close was harrowing, drenching the blade from top to bottom. Even the handle was covered.

When it was soaked in walker blood it was different ─ that didn't really mean anything to her. But this was nauseating in comparison, and the sight alone left a prickling sensation shooting up the back of Marley's neck. That was Lori's blood. That was the only thing Marley had left to remember her by. A memoir of the woman's last moment as she screamed out in agony, knife ripping across her flesh. That alone felt wrong. Felt bad. Remembering her should have been positive, recollecting memories of her genuineness.

That was why Marley had to bury the knife.

She inhaled shakily, and her hand darted forward. She curled her fingers around the hilt of the blade, arm trembling. The dry blood etched into the handle cracked beneath her fingers, burrowing deeply into her callouses ─ which were still stained crimson. Instinct took over, and Marley immediately wanted to drop the knife, but she persevered. Even though it felt like it was burning a permanent mark against her flesh, she persevered. Even when it became so mentally taxing, Marley persevered.

She didn't drop the knife. She couldn't. She had to bury it.

She had to.

So she moved.

Beth was sitting in the cafeteria, rocking the baby back and forth on her lap. It wasn't crying anymore ─ just gurgling and clenching it's hands into tiny fists ─ which was good. And it would have formula soon, since Daryl and Maggie were on a run to retrieve some.

Slowly, they were healing.

Very slowly.

As Marley passed through the cafeteria, Beth smiled. The gesture didn't reach her eyes at all, and instead appeared as though it pained her just to try. Her gaze then shifted to the bloodied knife wedged between Marley's fingers, and she looked back up, a knowing gleam in her oceanic eyes. She didn't try and talk, or demand Marley elaborate on her obvious plan, or pull her features into something sympathetic. She just nodded.